Beloved Enemy, page 42
Jed, feeling the general’s weight grow heavier on his shoulder, glanced up anxiously at the tall figure beside him. The general seemed shrunken somehow, thin as a rail and stooped, his face haggard, his eyes sunken. It was not surprising after such a long illness following a near-mortal wound, but it was the blow to his spirit that would keep him enfeebled unless Jed could come up with something.
“Reckon you’ll be needed in London, soon as ye’re fit to travel, General,” he said. “Plenty of work to be done there. There’s talk of bringin’ the king to trial.”
“Aye,” Alex agreed dully. “ ’Tis not an action I’ll support. There’s no call for regicide.”
“Sooner ye get there and make your views known, sir, the better,” Jed said with a cheery note of enthusiasm. “Can’t hang about up north forever, now.”
“Hanging about up north was never my intention,” Alex stated acidly. “But perhaps you’ll tell me how I’m to leave, when I can’t walk ten paces down the street without your support!”
Jed refrained from comment since there would be little point in it, but he determined to prod the general frequently about his views on the possible execution of the king. If he could be encouraged to take up a definite stance on the matter, nothing would stop him from hurrying back to London to put his principles into effect, and in all the ensuing bustle, maybe he could be induced to put thoughts of Mistress Courtney behind him.
Night after night, Ginny would edge gingerly to the far side of the bed, away from the sprawled, stertorously snoring figure of her husband. His outflung limbs left little space for her, and she was petrified of touching him lest he wake and attempt to renew the conjugal assault on her body that a drunken stupor had mercifully and as always brought to an incomplete close. Giles Courtney had never been anything but an inconsiderate lover, but now, faced with his impotence, humiliated and frustrated by the woman who had betrayed his bed, he was careless of hurting her, pinching and prodding, breathing over her the fumes of the brandy that he took ostensibly to dull the pain of his hip. In fact, the brandy bottle appeared at the breakfast table and remained at his side until he retired.
Once and only once, Ginny had attempted to remonstrate with him, to point out the deleterious effects of this constant imbibing, had offered to prepare a soothing poultice for his hip. The tirade that had broken over her head in a white-hot, intoxicated fury had left her shaking and frightened for her physical safety for the first time. Since then, she had kept out of his way as far as it was possible.
They had found Courtney Manor intact, having escaped occupation by Parliament’s forces, but crippling fines had been levied on the family for their part in the war, and they were forced to sell off vast tracts of woodland and borrow heavily. As a result, stringent household economies were instituted by Lady Courtney, something that did not concern Ginny in the least, but seriously affected the equanimity of her three sisters-in-law and her husband who felt, after his years of fighting and hardship, that he was entitled to the comforts and luxuries that had hitherto been his due.
Nothing had been said about the circumstances in which Giles had met up again with his wife, and his mother and sisters assumed that he had journeyed to the Isle of Wight to fetch her back. Her desertion on her husband’s supposed death, however, rankled, and no opportunity was lost to increase the misery of her existence.
The winter of 1648 dragged interminably. The country was in a turmoil as the king was seized and taken from the Isle of Wight to Windsor. On January 30, 1649, he was executed on a scaffold specially erected outside the banqueting house at Whitehall. Ginny, sickened at the news, left the house on a raw February afternoon, and rode down to the sea. That time of her audience with the king at Carisbrooke, when she had taken his seal and pledged herself to further his cause in Parliament’s despite seemed an eternity past. Just as did the time she had spent at Whitehall, dining in that banqueting house at the high table with Parliament’s newly appointed general. Where was Alex now? Would he have supported the king’s execution? Was he well? The image of the green-brown eyes softened in love or snapping with exasperation hung in her mind’s eye, the feel of his hands touched her skin. There seemed little point in existence any more.
The sea crashed gray against the stony beach in the horseshoe-shaped cove, inviting her with its implacable rhythm that all the misery in the world could not alter. She could swim out to the farthermost edge of the headland where the current was strong. The water was cold enough to numb the limbs of the strongest swimmer, and it would not take long to slip down into the cradle of oblivion....
Each day she cherished the thought that perhaps today Alex would come riding on Bucephalus, up the gravel sweep to hammer on the great door, to catch her up in front of him and ride away with her. Of course he would not; she had left him without a word, without the slightest hope that they could ever come together again, not in Giles Courtney’s lifetime. But even knowing that it was impossible could not destroy the dream that kept her alive, shielded her from the pinpricks of unkindness from her in-laws and the nightly brutality of her husband, who, in angry failure, would blame her and call her whore, leaving her to lie awake throughout the long reaches of the night, crying inside for the loss of love and passion.
The cold, gray familiar sea beckoned again with its promise of surcease. Resolutely, Ginny turned away from the invitation. The bed she lay on was largely of her own making, and she had never before lacked courage. To give one’s life as Peter Ashley and Jack Calvert and Diccon and so many others had done was a fine and splendid thing, but to take it because things were not as one would wish them to be was a cowardly act, and one that would negate the sacrifices of all those others.
Back at the house, she paused outside the small parlor, listening to the most unusual sounds of her mother-in-law’s voice raised in altercation with her son.
“Eavesdropper, keyhole peeper,” a voice hissed behind her, and she spun round guiltily to face the malicious glare of Giles’s youngest sister Margaret.
“I was just about to join my husband in the parlor, as it happens,” Ginny lied, quite unable to bear such a meanspirited accusation. Since Margaret showed no intention of leaving, she was obliged to follow through and open the door.
The two within stared at her, for the moment silenced by their surprise. Virginia never appeared among the family except at the dinner table and never took part in exchanges, be they acrimonious or harmonious. “Good morrow, husband, madam,” she greeted them calmly, dropping a polite curtsy. “I trust I do not intrude.”
“As it happens, the matter concerns you,” Lady Courtney said stiffly. “Although your opinion is of little interest and even less importance.”
Ginny dropped another curtsy in ironic acceptance of the truth and waited.
“We are to go to the Colonies, it seems, to repair the family fortunes,” Giles stated, limping irritably over to the sideboard where the brandy bottle stood. “My mother seems to think it is the only way we shall be able to maintain Courtney Manor for our heirs–not that there’s much sign of them,” he added morosely, glaring at Ginny with red-rimmed eyes over the bottle.
“May I ask, madam, why the Colonies would achieve this miracle?” Ginny inquired, ignoring her husband’s remark.
Lady Courtney, although she would die rather than admit it, had developed a certain reluctant respect for her daughter-in-law. There was a hint of steel beneath the appearance of obedience and dutiful respect that the other woman recognized, just as she saw the weakness of her son. Giles would never amount to anything left to himself, but with his wife behind him, it was just possible. Anyway, it would certainly be worth enlisting her support. So she answered the question with none of her customary sharpness. “My uncle’s son and his wife went to the Colony of Virginia some fifteen years ago, receiving a land grant from the London Company,” she explained. “They were planting tobacco. I received a letter two weeks ago, and it seems they are doing well. There is still much land available.” She handed Ginny a pamphlet of the kind issued by the companies promoting emigration. “Our neighbors, the Hallidays, received this in London. Their son is sailing on the next vessel leaving Southampton under the auspices of the London Company.”
Ginny examined the pamphlet critically. It was full of flowery promises of fabulous riches and untold amounts of land waiting to be seized by the bold and the farseeing. No mention of the hardships she had heard tell of, of the wilderness and the disease, of the painted savages who massacred whole settlements. She remembered listening to an old mariner given hospitality by John Redfern some ten years ago, telling of the massacre of 1622, of the land seething with wildlife that the settlers could neither tame nor catch for the pot, of the way they had to hew land for cultivation out of the wilderness and swamp. But it was also true, that since then matters had improved somewhat, and if this pamphlet was to be believed, some forty thousand souls had been conveyed to the Colony of Virginia in the last fifteen years, and the planting of tobacco was the road to fortune.
It was also the road away from the agony of memory and loss, she thought. A better road, surely, than the one offered by the sea this afternoon. It offered escape from this prison, where every day was the same, bound by malice and duty in hostile company. True, it would not take her away from Giles Courtney, but it would take him away from the women who kept him ineffectual and without purpose with their doting servitude. Who could know what he might become in a new land where he had to stand on his own feet, face challenges that might, at least, take his mind off tormenting his wife? It could be no worse, and the possibility that it might be better was sufficient. Alex was lost to her so completely already, that a separating ocean was of no moment.
“I find the idea appealing, madam,” she said. “It is written here that the next ships will sail at the end of April. We have two months to make our preparations. It will be sufficient time, I think.”
Lady Courtney smiled. “I see no reason why we cannot accomplish everything in that time, daughter. Giles, you must journey to London within the week and meet with the men of the London Company. You will receive a land grant from them and details of your passage.”
And thus is was settled, Giles reflected in moody resignation. Settled between his mother and his wife, as it had been settled that he should declare himself for the king four years previously. That decision had brought only disaster; there was little reason to imagine that this one would be any different.
Chapter Twenty-four
On the last Saturday in April, Giles and Virginia Courtney stood with twenty other passengers on the deck of the Elizabeth May watching the port of Southampton recede as the vessel, under full sail, picked up speed with the fresh breeze and danced across the waters of the Solent, heading for the Needle Rocks and the English Channel.
Ginny stood riveted to the deck rail, watching the Isle of Wight come closer until she could see the house on the headland above Alum Bay. It looked just as it had when she had left it ten months ago, but it was not hard to imagine what ten months of neglect had wreaked in the gardens and fields of the estate, and the house would be dusty and mildewed. But perhaps it already had new owners, staunch Parliamentarians rewarded for their services. She swallowed her tears. It was over, all over. The past was gone and she had only the future to face. And the immediate future would require every vestige of strength and courage if it was to be embraced with even a modicum of dignity.
She went down to the between deck area where the passengers were to be quartered during the voyage. With a headroom of a mere four foot seven, only the children could stand up. It was an area designed for cargo, not people, and no attempt had been made to modify it for its new purpose. Voices were already raised in argument as the passengers laid claim to deck area, rolling out their pallets, arranging their chests, in which reposed all their worldly goods, as boundary fences around them.
Giles had established an area in one corner, and Ginny had to give him credit for picking a relatively choice spot and hanging on to it with all the grim determination of a spoiled child with a disputed sweetmeat. The cackle of chickens rose from the hold below where they hung in cages above the water barrels, sacks of flour, and grain, the flitches of bacon, sides of beef, hogsheads of pickled herring and salted cod, the casks of ale that would be all they would have to drink once the water was used and they were far from land. A child began to wail, an exasperated hand cracked, and the wailing doubled in volume.
Ginny went back on deck. Three months of that, if they were lucky, and once in the open sea the gratings would be battened down, and they would be herded into that space, lit only by oil lamps, cooking, washing, eating, sleeping, performing all the most intimate activities–privacy a lost word.
A seaman pushed past her, hauling on the topsail halyard, and one of the officers bellowed at her to get below. Ginny contemplated telling him that she was probably every bit as capable of sailing the wretched ship as he was, then decided against it. Three months was a long time, and it would be impolitic to set up backs before they had even left the Channel. A cursory glance had shown her that the sailors’ and officers’ quarters were palatial compared with those between decks. The bunks were long enough and wide enough to accommodate the human frame, but most important, they were fore and aft the main deck with access to light and air. In the forward cabin, also, was set up a brick fireplace with arms and hooks for cooking pots. Ginny wondered if and when the passengers would have access to those facilities, or would they be condemned to cooking below decks even in calm seas?
Alex rode through the verdant Dorsetshire countryside, his heart pounding uncomfortably, his hands sticky in his gauntlets although it was a chilly May morning. He did not know why he was doing this, except that he had to be sure that she was alive and well. He would not go up to the house, he would not even try to see her, but in Lulworth village he would make general inquiries, and Jed would ask around also. Between them, they would be able to glean a relatively accurate picture of life at Courtney Manor.
But the information he received at the ale bench of the Stag and Hounds rendered him dumbfounded for a full five minutes. Esquire Courtney and his lady wife had taken ship for the Colonies at the end of April. It was said they were bound for Virginia, a good destination for Mistress Courtney, the goodwife chuckled, setting a foaming tankard at his hand, being as how she was so named herself. Of course, the fines for Malignancy had been monstrous heavy on the Courtneys and it was said that only by planting in the Colonies could they hope to maintain the estate by sending monies home to Lady Courtney, who had a good head on her shoulders, better than her son’s, the goodwife added with a lowered voice. The young mistress, also, kept a clear head for management and was much missed in and around the village, such skill she had with the simples. But such a sad lady, as she was, hardly ever smiled since she had come back after the war. Quite dreadful it was to see such unhappiness on such a pretty young face. Not long for this world, they had all been feeling, and there were some that said she spent an unnatural long time looking at the sea. The goodwife nodded significantly. Not that anyone was accusing the poor young thing of harboring wickedness–but . . .
Alex muttered something noncommittal, and the woman’s chatter eventually ceased. Tossing a coin on the bench, he remounted Bucephalus and rode out of the village, his mind in a turmoil. Jed rode stolidly at his side. He had heard every word of the goodwife’s discourse at the inn, and one look at the general’s face made it clear that he would not welcome interruption.
The New World! Alex shook his head in disbelief, yet wondered why he should find the news so surprising. It was a route taken by many Royalists in the aftermath of defeat. Having lost their lands here, for many it seemed the logical course, to go where land aplenty lay for the taking, where fortunes could be repaired. But had Virginia gone willingly? Or had she gone, the submissive wife at the insistence of her lord, staring back at the island of her birth, wondering where lay the man she had loved and left, whether he was thinking of her, whether he needed her? She had not been happy, that much he knew. Not even resigned, if the goodwife had been telling the truth. And he was wretched. Life had no savor any more. Not even ambition could compensate for the loss of that undisciplined rebel with the bee-sting tongue, and the glorious, passionate nature, and the river of compassion that flowed in her veins.
The familiar lethargy of grief slopped over him, and his shoulders sagged. Jed glanced sideways and sighed, recognizing the signs. “Seems to me ye’d do well to go after the mistress, sir,” he said directly. “Not goin’ to get anythin’ done, mopin’ and moanin’ all the time.”
“She is another man’s wife, Jed,” Alex snapped. “Do you think I have not thought of going after her? There is talk, these days, in Parliament of making adultery a capital offense! I cannot risk her life as well as her reputation. For mine own, I care not a jot.”
“It was your life and career she was thinkin’ of when she went off,” Jed pointed out. “Don’t think she cared too much about her own either. Besides,” he added casually, “that husband of hers looked mighty sickly to my way o’ thinkin’. Should be surprised if he survived the voyage. Short o’ women they are in the New World, or so they says; a pretty young wider woman’d be snapped up before she ever set foot on land.”
“In the name of the good God, what are you getting at, Jed?” Alex demanded, although his companion’s meaning was perfectly clear.
“Things change, that’s all,” Jed replied tranquilly. “But if ’n ye’re not around when they do, can’t do much about it... stands to reason.”
Alex looked around at the peaceful, tamed countryside that he loved, that he would have given his life to preserve, had nearly done so, in fact. There was soldier’s work to be done in Ireland where Cromwell was fighting for reconquest, and there was politician’s work to be done in London now that both the king’s office and the House of Lords had been abolished by act of Parliament. The authority of Parliament rested solely with the army now, and a New Model general held power in the palm of his hand. But it was all empty; the once-sweet cup of power and ambition contained only the sour dregs of disappointment and loss. Without Virginia, he might as well as retire, a reclusive, miserable man in his thirtieth year, to a cottage in the countryside and breed goats.
